Reluctant Bride Read Free Page B

inside my skin. Looking past the man’s shoulder, I saw our carriage had got thrown on its side. The door must have flown open as we flipped, tossing me out by the force of it.
    “Are you all right? Can you hear me?” the man asked.
    I could see and hear it was a man, could distinguish vaguely a curled beaver on top of his head, and a blur of face. If only he would stop shaking my broken skull, I thought my vision might focus. I closed my eyes, trying to remember where I was, and what had happened. When I opened them, the face had assumed features. A pair of dark, worried, but mostly angry eyes stared at me intently. A great beak of a nose jutted forth beneath the eyes. There was something vaguely hawk-like in the face. You know the angry look a hawk has. There were lines etched from nose to lips—full, sensuous lips that were out of place on that predatory countenance. The forehead was also etched with lines. Mitzi came whining up to me, too rattled to spit, as I am sure she felt like doing. I know I did.
    “Cracker, go for a sawbones. She’s bleeding,” the man called over his shoulder, then reached down and brushed my hair from my temple. When his fingers came away, they were smeared with my blood. It was sufficient to send me off into another bout of vapors. I am annihilated by the sight of blood, especially my own.
    The next time I got my eyes and ears open, the man had discovered there was more than one passenger in our carriage and was in the process of lifting Maisie out the door. She hung like a rag doll in his arms. I struggled to my feet, staggered to the closest tree, till the ground ceased rotating beneath me, turned from black and blue to green, then I went falteringly toward them. Mitzi dragged along behind me. I was petrified to see poor Maisie looking entirely lifeless.
    “You’ve killed her!” I said, in a whisper.
    “Rubbish! She’s unconscious,” the man answered roughly, though he looked extremely worried. He placed her on the ground. “Watch her,” he ordered me, as he jumped up and ran to the road.
    There was a frisky gig coming toward us, pulled by a single nag. He hailed it, and another gentleman hopped down to offer his aid. The newcomer had the air of a bumptious squire. You can spot them a mile away, with their self-important manner, their provincial accents and their poor tailoring.
    “These women are hurt. Are you from around here? Where can I take them to be seen to?” our accident-prone friend asked, in the most overbearing way imaginable, as though the whole affair were a great imposition on his time and patience.
    “My own place is just two miles down the road. I would be happy to help,” the squire offered.
    “Two miles? Christ, they’ll have bled to death before they are taken half that distance. Is there nowhere closer? An inn, a farm house . .” He looked around as he spoke, but there was no building in sight.
    “Devizes is only half a mile yonder,” the squire told him.
    “Help me get them into my rig, will you?” he asked, but in an imperative tone. “The younger one is conscious. She can walk to it. The old lady will have to be hauled.”
    I was kneeling over Maisie, chaffing her hands, trying to rouse her, while this genteel conversation went forth. “Hauled” as if she were a load of rubbish. The two men came forward, elbowing me aside to lift Maisie from the ground. The squirrel hunter’s carriage was not in the ditch, but resting on the shoulder of the road. They were about to place Maisie on a banquette, when suddenly the carriage leaned sharply to the left. A wheel had been broken, but had not fallen till the weight was placed on it. An accomplished curse rent the air. I am happy to say Mitzi had recovered, and took offense at the offender. She has no great love for men. She behaves well with females, but will often take to spitting at loud gentlemen. I usually try to curb her, but let her hiss away on this occasion.
    “We’ll have to use your